Chapter 4 - The Closed Casket Secret
The rain beat a relentless tattoo against the roof of the Calloway cottage, a modest, salt-weathered house tucked safely behind a dense grove of pine trees half a mile from the cliffs.
Inside, the house was warm, smelling faintly of brewed chamomile tea and old paper.
Wren was fast asleep in her small attic bedroom beneath a patchwork quilt, her red thread bracelet resting on the wooden nightstand beside a stack of comic books. Downstairs in the kitchen, Delia sat at the wooden table by the light of a single kerosene lamp, her weathered hands turning a yellowed photograph over and over again.
The photograph showed a younger Julian Voss holding a newborn infant wrapped in a pink blanket, smiling with a rare, unguarded tenderness that the underworld had long since beaten out of him.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three heavy, deliberate raps sounded against the front door.
Delia didn't jump. She didn't gasp. She had lived in anticipation of this knock for three thousand two hundred and eighty-five days. She slowly set the photograph down, smoothed her apron, and walked steadily toward the heavy oak door.
She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled it open.
Standing on the porch, drenched from head to toe, illuminated by the flashing blue light of a parked Mercedes idling in the lane, was Julian Voss. Water dripped from his dark hair down his sharp jawline. His charcoal overcoat was soaked through, but his gaze was locked entirely on Delia's face.
He didn't pull a gun. He didn't shout. He simply looked at her with an intensity that could crack stone.
"You're late, Julian," Delia said quietly, her voice steady and unyielding. "I expected you yesterday when you knocked over my clams."
Julian stepped across the threshold, bringing the chill of the storm into the warm hallway. "You knew who I was at the market."
"I knew who you were the day you buried an empty box," Delia replied, stepping back to let him enter the small parlor. "Close the door before you let the whole gale inside."
Julian closed the door slowly. He stood in the modest living room, his dark eyes taking in every detail—the framed paintings of lighthouses, the shelves overflowing with children's books, the hand-knitted blankets draped over the sofa. This was the life his daughter had lived while he had spent nearly a decade bathing his hands in blood, believing himself entirely alone.
May you like
"Where is she?" Julian asked, his voice trembling slightly as he fought to keep his composure.
"Asleep upstairs," Delia said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And before you even think about marching up those stairs and waking an eight-year-old child with your shadow, you're going to sit down at this table and listen to how she survived the monsters you brought to your door."
